


maybe we're a bliss of another kind

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Sisters Doing It For Themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Vera has never felt this way about another living soul. Vera Bennett, attracted to a murderer.It’s poetic fucking irony, isn’t it?





	maybe we're a bliss of another kind

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love -- let me know what you think!   
> Title is from "Bliss" by Tori Amos.

As Vera zips the clear case holding her belongings, a knock sounds at the door. She bristles at the interruption but softens her expression as Jake opens the door and pokes his head into her office. 

“I was hoping you’d still be here,” he says with a charming smile, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure that he is alone in the hallway. “Shall I follow you back to yours?” 

Her shoulders tense at the prospect of an interloper on her sacred time alone, but she smiles. “Not tonight. I’ve got a nasty headache.” 

He frowns, but thankfully doesn’t push. She’s grateful for this -- he is a wild card, unpredictable in his moods, but she is not in the mood to deal with his persistence to join her in her bed. “Can I at least walk you to your car?” 

“I’m a few minutes out. You go on ahead. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He studies her for a moment before nodding. “Goodnight then.” 

“Goodnight.” 

She is relieved when he closes the door behind him, leaving her alone in her dim, quiet office. 

-

Vera’s timecard will reflect that she clocked out at exactly 11:00 pm, though she does not get into her car for the short drive home for another hour and forty-nine minutes. 

She busies herself in her office, approving and denying time off requests. She gets a thrill from denying Linda Miles a coveted Friday off, thus denying her a day of gambling. She approves Jake’s request for a weekend off and wonders if he might ask her to join him. 

She wonders how she would respond if he did. 

The prison is silent. The women are in their cells, the staff are monitoring the halls and no doubt their cell phones, and her bed is waiting for her. 

She has one stop to make first. 

Vera has learned over the years how to silently creep throughout the prison, has learned how to hold her hand when opening a gate and how to shift her weight to the balls of her feet to avoid the clack of her heels. She has learned to rely on the prisoners’ perception of her, even as Governor, to slink back into invisibility and move as freely as she’d like. It gives her a thrill to know that she can traverse the halls of her prison without much notice, and she uses this to her advantage. 

The block is quiet as she lets herself in, maneuvering herself toward the cell housing one prisoner in particular. She pauses out of sight of the door’s window, her diminutive frame making it difficult to see inside -- or be seen. She listens, straining her ears for any sound, any stirring on the unit. If anyone’s awake, they’re not moving. 

She steps tentatively toward the cell, pausing again to listen. Satisfied, she takes another, and then another, until she is standing at the door, peering in through the window. 

Inside, Joan Ferguson is asleep. 

Something stirs within Vera at the sight of her, her pale skin illuminated by the sliver of moonlight creeping in from the gap in the curtain. There’s just enough light to see that Joan’s eyes are closed, and she’s just close enough to observe the subtle flicker behind her eyelids, indicating Joan is clinging to some semblance of a dream state. What does Joan Ferguson dream about? Jianna? Her father? 

She swallows the lump that has formed in her throat. No, she will not allow herself to wonder if Joan dreams about her. 

The prisoner’s hair is down, fanning her pillow. Her mouth is slack in sleep; devoid of a smirk or a sneer, Joan looks...different, somehow. Peaceful. Serene. No -- that’s not it. She looks...haunted. 

Joan stirs, shifting her hips and drawing her arm to lie upon her chest, just below the swell of her breasts. Her long, strong fingers rise and fall with each steady inhale and exhale. She stares for long moments at those fingers. At the softness in her mouth. At the swell of her hips beneath her blanket. At the entire long, lean shape of her.

Vera bites her lip. 

It’s time to go home. 

-

She doesn’t bother to turn on on the light when she walks through the door. She drops her keys into the little bowl on the coffee table, toes off her heels, and begins to pull at the pins in her hair. By the time she reaches her kitchen, Vera has shaken out her hair so that it falls freely over her shoulders. Her stomach growls -- did she eat dinner, or lunch for that matter? -- but she does not have time for hunger. That’s not part of this ritual. Instead, Vera reaches for the freezer and pulls out the bottle that is tucked amongst the frozen dinners and bags of vegetables. She doesn’t bother with a glass. She simply unscrews the cap, holds the bottle to her lips, and takes a large, bitter gulp. 

The vodka burns in her throat, but she’s had enough practice now to avoid the coughing. The liquor warms her belly and loosens her limbs. She will typically put the bottle away at this point but tonight, Vera holds it tightly and heads for the bedroom. 

She passes the mirror in the hallway. She does not look at herself. 

-

The removal of her clothing is a slow, methodical process. She imagines how Joan might have gone about this herself, taking care to avoid creases and putting away each item in its rightful home. Vera unbuttons her jacket, closing her eyes and imagining larger, stronger hands fitting each button through its hole until the fabric is parted. She takes care to shrug the jacket off of her shoulders before draping it over the back of a chair. 

She repeats this process with her blouse and skirt and pantyhose. Her bra and underwear remain and she hesitates. 

No -- she will not take these off. The ghost of her mother haunts her, urging her to maintain unnecessary modesty in a house she now lives in alone. Old habits, and all that. 

Before Vera lies fully on the bed in her dark bedroom, she takes another sip of vodka. She feels warm in her fingers and her toes. Did Joan feel like this, drinking her chilled vodka with her pre-made meals? Did the booze warm up her icy interior, making her body feel as though it were humming with light? Did it made her feel this...yummy? Did this bring her bliss or some kind, the booze flirting with her hard-fought control?

Vera’s back hits the cool sheets and she sighs, her eyes closing as she settles back against her pillow. She takes a moment to feel her body hum in unspent energy and desire. It could burn her up, this wanting, this aching need. Sometimes she feels like it already has and that her heart is nothing more than ash. Joan has been both her salvation and her undoing. 

Vera traces dizzying patterns on her skin, drawing gooseflesh beneath the wake of her fingertips. She teases herself, tracing the standard issue cotton and satin of her bra, before raking her nails over her taut, pebbled nipples. She sighs. 

She has long since stopped fighting her own thoughts, knowing just what her body needs to find the release it craves. She allows the thoughts to creep in, to consume her, to burn her alive with the scorching heat of her yearning. 

She thinks of Joan Ferguson. She thinks of her in her governor’s uniform, tall and formidable, pristine and neat and imposing. She thinks of her height, her size, her perfect tall frame. She thinks of this dark eyes, seeing right through to her very soul, knowing immediately what and who Vera wants more than anything else in this bleak, scary, exciting world. 

She thinks of Joan in her cell, Joan the Prisoner, Joan the Murderer and Liar and Manipulator. She thinks of Joan, capable of anything, willing to do whatever she must in order to get her own way. God, this woman should terrify her, should frighten the living daylights out of her. She does, in her way. But she also excites, thrills, entices, arouses… 

Vera has never felt this way about another living soul. Vera Bennett, attracted to a murderer. 

It’s poetic fucking irony, isn’t it? 

She’s long past the judgment and the guilt and the shame. She now simply craves her own touch while thinking about Joan fucking Ferguson. 

What would happen, she wonders as she gropes her breast through her bra, if she entered Joan’s cell in the middle of the night? What if she rucked up her skirt and straddled the other woman, pinning her to the mattress? Joan could easily overpower her -- would she? Or would she get a thrill out of inspiring such dominance in Vera? Would it excite her? 

Vera whimpers. She takes another long sip from the bottle on her nightstand, wanting to chase the heat until she is nothing more than a pile of ashes in her childhood bed. The alcohol swirls in her body and bloodstream and mind, making her feel far away and alight with yearning. 

All because of Joan Ferguson. 

She wonders what Joan would like. Would she like to be bitten, or teased by the faintest brush of her lips against the pale column of her throat? Would she like the way it feels for Vera’s breasts to brush against her own through several layers of clothing? Would she like being tickled and teased, or would she want to be scratched and pinched and plucked until bruises blossom across her pale flesh? 

Vera would give anything, _anything_ , to find out. 

Vera trails her fingernails down the length of her own petite body, imaging instead the former governor pinning her to the mattress and doing the same. She envisions the other woman parting her legs and palming the scorching heat of her sex through her cotton underwear, learning immediately of the force of Vera’s desire. 

She touches herself through her damp underwear, spreading the wetness up and up until her clit is wet and stiff and aching for her attention. Joan wouldn’t touch her clit right away. No -- Joan would torture her with attention everywhere except where Vera needs it most. She would draw out the pleasure until it hurt, until Vera was squirming and begging for release. And only when Joan was certain that she had complete control would she devote her entire being on making Vera come. 

When Vera begins to circle her fingers against her clitoris she cries out, spreading her legs until the muscles burn. She feels incredible, her body drawn taut as she focuses her thoughts on Governor Ferguson fucking her. Fantasies flash like snapshots in her mind -- Ferguson fucking her on her desk, Ferguson fucking her against the wall of the kitchen, Ferguson fucking her on her sofa. She thinks, also, of Prisoner Joan, fucking her against her small prison-issue mattress, fucking her on the bench in the yard, fucking her so hard that she could be anywhere and it wouldn’t matter. 

Vera has to stop for a moment, pressing her fingers hard against her clit as if to pause her pleasure before she tumbles too quickly over the edge. She’s so close to giving in, to letting her body have its hard fought release, but she can’t -- not yet. 

No -- Vera hasn’t even gotten to the fantasies of what _she_ would do to Joan. She pictures herself (as she has many, many times), kneeling before her at the desk, stroking her tongue against swollen, wet folds. She imagines herself parting Joan’s thighs while she lays in the bed in her cell, fucking her until Joan’s knuckles are white from gripping the sheets. She thinks about pushing Joan back against the chainlink fence while her hands steals beneath the teal sweatpants to stroke her through her underwear. 

“Oh,” Vera sighs, imagining the look on Joan’s face when she falls apart. She’d give anything to see that face. She hopes, one day, to sneak upon Joan Ferguson in the throws of solitary pleasure in her cell. She certainly must know that Vera comes to gaze upon her -- would she ever give this gift to Vera?

Her body is frenzied and thrumming in need. She settles on a fantasy -- Joan bending her over her desk and fucking her from behind -- and bites her lip at the image. Pulling her underwear aside, Vera strokes her fingers through her slick folds and touches herself the way she imagines Joan might touch her, drawing steady, tight circles around her clit. She carries this on until the throbbing ache of her cunt draws her fingers down, lower, until she reaches the sensitive band of flesh that marks the very depth of her. She teases this spot, twirling her finger around and around until her thighs are shaking. She lets out a little cry, the sound still foreign in the house she was trained to be oh so quiet in. When she enters herself with two fingers, the cry that echoes throughout the house is one that she has never heard -- not with Fletch, not with Jake, not with herself. 

Only with Joan Ferguson. 

She is so fucking close and she strokes herself outside and inside and everywhere that evokes a pleasurable response. She draws it out as long as possible but the Joan in her mind has full control over the response of her body. When she comes, loud and violent and shattering, it’s because the Governor Ferguson in her mind has told her to. 

She comes, and comes, and comes. 

When she is done, sated and exhausted, Vera curls onto her side, pulls her legs to her chest, and falls into a dreamless sleep. 

\- 

Jake tells her that he missed her, though Vera has worked in this prison long enough to know bullshit when she hears it. She tells him that maybe they'll see each other tonight, but she knows they both know it’s a lie. 

She thinks, instead, about what she may do this evening when she gets home. This used to happen only sporadically, only when Vera was angry or desperate. Now though, now Vera needs it more often. 

Almost every night. 

Seeing Joan every day is torture. It had been hard enough when Joan was the governor. Back then, despite the mind games and the manipulation, Vera had been in a state of near-arousal over her mentor and friend.

Things have changed. Joan is a prisoner. She’s...well, she’s a monster, right? She’s done horrible things and taken lives and has even put Vera’s own life in danger, but this has only added to the thrill. There’s a tinge of fear each time she comes, clinging to her own bed for dear life as her body convulses in response to a woman who could -- and might -- try to kill her at any time. 

Vera never knew she had a death wish, but times have changed. 

So absorbed is Vera in her own thoughts that she almost doesn’t notice Joan stop in front of her in the hall. Vera swallows, casting her eyes upward to catch Joan’s eye. She can’t help but notice the smirk on her lips. Her knees tremble at the sight of it. 

“The next time you visit,” Joan says quietly, low enough that only Vera can hear, “you ought to say hello.” 

Vera blushes. Joan’s smirk deepens. 

“Maybe I will,” Vera replies. 

And she just might. 

\---


End file.
